Chapter 684: The Tank Battle
Montreuil, British Expeditionary Force Headquarters.
Haig was buried in reports inside what remained of a command building—one corner of the structure had collapsed from artillery fire. Outside, wounded soldiers were being carried away while replacement troops and scattered stragglers staggered into the rear areas.
Shells howled overhead and exploded nearby. The roar of aircraft engines filled the air, interrupted by bursts of strafing runs that turned entire British positions into scenes of screaming chaos.
The British defense of Montreuil was collapsing.
Their artillery was out-ranged by the Germans' 105mm howitzers. Their planes were outnumbered. Their tanks were outdated and underarmored. Worst of all, every single one of their defensive lines had been constructed facing northeast—toward Belgium. No one had anticipated that German tanks would instead roll in from the rear, along the Somme.
By all accounts, the British should have already been driven into the sea.
The only reason they held was Kitchener's emergency appeal, which brought in naval support—three battleships including the Queen Elizabeth, and five cruisers. Naval artillery managed to stall the German onslaught, but only barely.
"General!" A communications officer rushed up, yelling over the din. "Good news—Russia has launched a massive counteroffensive on the Eastern Front and achieved a major breakthrough!"
Haig glanced up, expressionless, then turned back to his map. He didn't trust Russian reports. Even if they were counterattacking, it would likely be on a small scale—tactically irrelevant.
Victory? Haig didn't believe they were capable of such a thing.
But the messenger persisted. "Under General Brusilov's command, the Russians have inflicted over 100,000 casualties and taken 30,000 prisoners!"
Haig froze.
"You said how many?" he asked, staring at the man.
"One hundred thousand, sir."
Haig grabbed the telegram and read it himself. It was true.
A grin broke across his face. For the first time in days, he looked up with genuine optimism.
"Excellent!" he said, his tension easing. "If the Russians have broken through, that relieves pressure on us. The Germans will have to pull troops east."
He turned back to the map and began thinking aloud.
"This is our chance. If the Germans are destabilized, we can launch our own counterattack—seize the momentum and reclaim our dignity."
He looked up at his staff, brimming with confidence.
"We've lured them in," he declared. "We've stretched their supply lines. We'll strike from the Lys River and envelop them. Now's the time to teach them a lesson—make them bleed under our guns!"
(The Lys River runs east of Montreuil. The British plan was to trap the German advance between the river and the English Channel.)
Haig's bold words were as much for morale as strategy. He reframed the British retreat as a calculated trap. If he could reverse the tide now, his reputation—and that of the entire BEF—would be redeemed.
His aides nodded. One of them quietly noted the phrasing to leak to the press later, hoping to shape public opinion in Haig's favor.
But before anyone could act on it, another communications officer burst into the room, face pale.
"General! German tanks have attacked along the Lys River—they've already breached our lines! Colonel Terrence is requesting immediate reinforcements!"
Haig's blood ran cold.
He had thought the Germans would dig in and wait—resupply, refortify. Instead, they were attacking again. Worse, they weren't hitting Montreuil directly—they were bypassing it.
"Could they be… going for Dunkirk?" Haig whispered.
His face drained of color. All his forces were concentrated at Montreuil. The northern sector had only scattered logistics teams, wounded soldiers, and freshly arrived green troops—many of whom hadn't even fired a shot in combat. Worse still, those defenses faced entirely the wrong direction.
If the Germans broke through, they'd charge straight into a helpless rear.
"They could take Dunkirk," Haig realized aloud. "And if they do, there's no escape. We'd lose our supply line… our only port… the whole Expeditionary Force…"
Panic seized him. Either they surrendered—or tried to swim back to England.
"Send reinforcements!" Haig bellowed hoarsely. "Everything we've got—tanks, men—whatever we can move. We have to hold them!"
…
In the cold fog along the Lys River, the largest tank battle in human history was about to begin.
Over 800 tanks clashed on both sides.
But it was less a battle than a massacre.
Erwin had anticipated Haig's counterattack. As he pushed forward, he had carefully prepared fallback positions and dug in artillery and anti-tank teams near the Lys.
"They've overcommitted," Erwin told his staff, peering through binoculars. "They should've waited for our tanks to pass them by."
British tanks began rolling into view.
He recognized them immediately: Whippet tanks—light infantry support vehicles.
Designed to protect advancing infantry and suppress enemy positions, they were entirely unsuited to tank-versus-tank combat. Though armed with four machine guns, none could penetrate German armor.
Erwin smiled thinly.
"Advance."
His hand dropped.
"Push forward!" German officers roared.
German tanks surged ahead. Their movements were steady, deliberate. Each machine gleamed with menace, their cannons already aligned.
It wasn't a battle—it was a slaughter.
Though the British fielded over 500 tanks—nearly double the German number—their lighter armor and inferior firepower turned them into burning hulks.
Haig had hoped these machines would restore British pride. Instead, they became bonfires of shame.
German losses were minimal—just over 50 tanks. And even most of those were due to mechanical failure, not enemy action.
Flushed with victory, Erwin didn't stop. He led the First Panzer Division north, straight toward Dunkirk.
It was a gamble. His fuel reserves were dangerously low. The tanks barely had enough to reach the city.
But Erwin had already considered that.
"We'll get the fuel," he told his men. "Just keep your eyes open. The next truck you see—don't blow it up. It might be carrying exactly what we need."
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